O! What These Very Walls Might Sing
by raedbard
Summary: TobyAndy: Two homes and two stories from the ZieglerWyatt collection.


**Title:** O! What These Very Walls Might Sing...  
**Author:** Raedbard  
**Fandom:** The West Wing  
**Rating:** R, for teh het!sex. Really, I don't know!  
**Pairing:** Toby/Andy  
**Disclaimer:** I make no claim to be Aaron Sorkin or John Wells, I just like to borrow their characters sometimes.  
**Word Count:** c. 1,400 words  
**Summary:** Two homes and two stories from the Ziegler-Wyatt collection.

O! WHAT THESE VERY WALLS MIGHT SING …

_then_

They had lived in the apartment before they were married, even though it was too small and had been quickly filled with the detritus of two busy people, memos on the fridge instead of finger paintings. It suits him, not her. Toby finds himself shifting comfortably into the shadows which fall in the apartment corners, disappearing; but Andy is too bright for this place, her red hair reflecting light into patterns on the walls as if in protest at the confinement.

On their wedding night they go back there, crashing through the mess, two renamed people in an old place. Toby is happy that night, jubilant. He can't let go of her hands, rubbing over and over her new ring with his thumb and leading her everywhere until Andy laughs at him, her eyes shining, and pushes him away. But she smiles to ask him back: curling up against him in their new-old kitchen, cat-like, with her fingers and the heels of her hands kneading his chest.

They make love on the oak dining table, both thankful for its fat and sturdy legs, and then, laughing, through as many of the other rooms as they can manage before Toby collapses (exhausted, smiling) on their couch, his dark eyes shining up at her. Andy straddles him and kisses him, one hand flat and cool against his chest, the other in his hair, pulling and chafing - she is not finished yet.

Later, in their bed, she is beautiful: light, red and pale, her skin so thin in the dawn sun that he enfeebles his touch; he doesn't want to mark her. She arches up to him, asking, and he pauses, feeling low and inadequate. He strokes the cold air between them instead of her, half holding her off and half asking for himself. His white palms shine in the dim light until she pulls at him, drawing his body on top of hers. It's quick and easy for her - her nails grazing his hips and her cool hand bent backwards, low over the curve of his belly. She opens for him, thighs flushing pink, and then claims him, her icy fingers drawing out a sharp sigh from his open mouth.

The points of vivid heat between them warm the bed as dawn rises higher through the curtains. Morning falls on Andy as she comes, clutching at Toby's arms with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. It's easier for him then, easier to touch; dropping his head down onto her breasts and rubbing his cheek across her warm skin. When he can't see her face he is bolder, so he comes (slow and glorious) fast down across her body and covered in the smells of sex and sleep that lie on her.

"Maybe we'll get lucky this time," she says, after a minute.

"Yeah."

"I mean, the timing's right, the quantity -"

"Ah, quantity?"

"You know - not too often, not trying too hard?"

"Yeah, no...no danger of that."

"Toby?"

"Andy...it's just," he turns his palms up towards the bedroom ceiling in submission, "You know, there are other ways...other things."

"I'm not done yet, Toby."

"Yeah," he nods, in the dark. "Okay."

"Toby?"

"Okay, I said okay."

"I have to try."

"Yeah, I know." He turns to her, strokes her face and struggles with a smile. "We'll get there."

She sighs as she curls up next to him, against his unresisting arm. She's cold again now, and taking warmth from him and the bedclothes so that Toby feels he must reach around her and lie, uncomfortable, with Andy's head on his chest. He rubs his hand over and over the small of her back, listening to the sleepy quality of her moans and how they fade into his skin as she drifts off. The light coming in through their curtained windows seems duller now, and Toby thinks he can hear, faint and far off over the whisper of Andy's breathing, the sound of rain starting to fall.

_now_

The house rings out with her voice but remains silent and still, and sad. He hasn't furnished it fully yet, and it's cold most nights now that fall has started to slip into winter. Since he is seldom here the clutter hasn't yet reached its usual proportions, though it still took him twenty minutes to find a tie yesterday morning. Toby finds that he can't think in this empty house - the draughts carry away those fragile first sentences that come so easily at the office, leaving him chilled and nervous. This is supposed to be Andy's house; he's an imposter here, and the house seems to know it.

It is different on the days when the kids are with him. Huck and Molly fill up the house; every room they pass through in his arms seems brighter for their presence and their cries (and he still can't really tell the difference between 'Daddy, I'm hungry!' and 'Hey Daddy - look!') make music between the walls. He holds them as he works, not during the actual writing but for the good stuff: Huck when the ideas are flowing, because he gets tired first and frets in his arms; Molly as the revisions start to reveal the prize, quiet and cuddled up to his chest. One night he splashes a drop of ink on Molly's hand and as he rubs his thumb inside her palm to remove the ink while it's still wet he thinks, even though she's really still too young, he thinks she smiles at him, and then the house glows, the light shimmering in the mirrors and the facets of the too-low chandelier.

They sleep in the next room to his and Toby, not much of a sleeper himself these days, lies awake far past the time when the twins have both quieted, listening for any sound escaping from their sleep and slipping in through his open door. He wonders if he'd hear them if something happened; even though he knows that their cries would tear through the thin film of his sleep in moments, he still wonders if he'd hear them in time, he still lies sleepless.

The next day dawns and the last seconds of morning with them rush by too fast this time, as every time. It's too early for Molly and Huck and they're both sulky and prone to tears even though he tries, probably too hard, to pacify them with smiles and touches and kisses. Molly knocks his finger back with her bunched fist when he reaches out to clean up the mess that breakfast made on her chin.

"Okay, honey," he murmurs into her hair as he gets up to answer the doorbell that rang out with her cries. Andy's here and the handover is imminent.

"Hi," Andy says as he opens the door, her voice new and brittle in the freezing morning air.

"Hey," he answers, stepping aside awkwardly and almost tripping over some of the hallway junk. When he looks up from his feet into her face, Toby sees that she's smiling at him.

"Have they been okay?" she asks, walking past him and through to the kitchen, calling out over her shoulder.

"Yeah, they've been great," Toby answers, closing the door as quietly as he can and pre-occupied with the feeling that he is on the wrong side of it. "They've been really good," he says again, not quite loudly enough or with sufficient enthusiasm. Andy's standing at the table now, bending to kiss Huck's head as he flails in his high chair next to Molly. The kids are still fretful, but Toby watches them lean into her touch and hold up their hands for hers. Andy is smiling down on them, pale and lovely in the thin grey morning. She looks almost relieved to him, and Toby guesses that's only fair.

Later, after he's kissed the twins goodbye for another week and Andy's back on the wrong side of the door, she reaches out for him as he stands in the doorway, melting back into the grey winter shadow that fills the hall, squeezing his arm and offering him an apologetic smile.

"It really is a beautiful house, Toby."

He nods, "Yeah."

"Take care, okay?"

He smiles, swift and nervous, trying to deflect her concern. "Sure."

She grips his arm again, then releases him and strokes his sleeve with light, gloved fingers. Then she leans across and kisses him, her mouth brushing his cheek where the line of his beard starts and he leans his head into this kiss, his hair caught up with hers.

Toby finds he can't shut the door until the car is out of sight.


End file.
